


Relieving Boredom

by Rosie_Rues



Series: The Rising Storm [22]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1979, Community: dogdaysofsummer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-16
Updated: 2006-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rutland, July, 1979.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relieving Boredom

The thunder has been rumbling in the distance all afternoon, but the rain still takes Sirius by surprise. Like everyone else, he runs for cover, batting away the heavy raindrops. He finds himself in the church porch, with a whole crowd of strangers and Remus, who is dry and so has obviously been here sometime.

Remus is frowning over his notebook, biting the end of his pen. He’s squashed into the very corner of the porch, staring out at the gravestones.

Sirius squeezes in behind him, leaving wet smudges on the dry, grey stone. “What are you doing?”

“Writing up my notes,” Remus says tersely.

“Hmm,” Sirius says, unimpressed. He’s never seen the point of notes. If it’s important, he’ll remember it. “Do you know they hang horseshoes upside-down here?”

“That’s unlucky,” Remus says, hunching his shoulders.

“They think it stops the devil sitting in the bend.”

“Really.” Remus turns away a little, presenting Sirius with his back.

Sirius scowls at him. He isn’t even sure what he’s done wrong this time. Bloody grumpy git, that Remus Lupin. Wake him up in the middle of the night, and you’d think you’d tortured him for hours. Leave the knife in the toaster or fill in the crossword in biro and it was the end of the world (if they don’t want two letters in the same square they should make the squares smaller).

Still, his conscience is itching. Remus looks tired. Bloody moon. Bloody war. Bloody Wormtail being too drunk to get home alone and having to be taken. Remus shouldn’t ever look tired at all, let alone all the time.

The rain is splattering on the tiled roof of the church porch, making conversation hard. That’s all right. Other things to do. He presses his palm to Remus’ hip, feeling the thin cloth of his trousers chafe against his fingertips.

Remus whips his head round, glaring, and whispers, “People!”

Sirius shrugs. Everyone else is busy with their own conversations, and it’s not like they’re ever going to see any of them again.

Remus jerks his hip away.

Grumpy git. On the other hand, that makes it a challenge, whether Remus meant it that way or not.

The other people in the porch are eyeing them suspiciously. Sirius flashes them a smile and leans over Remus’ shoulder, as if he’s reading his notes. He’s pretty sure that Remus is wearing his worst pair of old trousers, the ones Sirius won’t let him throw away even though he never did grow into them and now they’re full of holes.

“Brass rubbings?” he says, for the benefit of their audience, and pokes Remus in the side, hard.

Remus flinches, and says, “You wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Sirius has already got his arm between Remus and the wall, and he slides his hand into Remus’ pocket, thinking, _You can rub my brass any time, Moodiful Moony._

And these _are_ Remus’ oldest trousers because there’s the huge hole in the pocket, the one his whole hand fits through. Here’s Remus’ thigh, warm under his hand, and the soft edge of Remus’ pants, old and saggy.

Remus’ shoulders stiffen, and Sirius grins to himself and says, “Going to tell me about them then?”

Plenty of room in here to slide his hand up, and under cloth, and here’s a lovely handful, soft and hot.

Remus says primly, “You don’t have the background. Why don’t you _stop bothering me_?”

“Then I’d be bored,” Sirius says, and twists his fingers around, squeezing gently. He can see Remus’ fingers tighten on the page, over lines of notes which aren’t about brass rubbings at all, but Death Eater movements and suspected caches.

He can feel Remus’ cock firming in his hand and grins gleefully.

“God forbid,” Remus murmurs, quivering.

“ _Remus_ ,” Sirius says reproachfully. “We’re in a church.”

Remus shoots him a look of horror.

“I wonder what church it is?” Sirius remarks. The skin on Remus’ cock is so soft, velvet-warm over the hardness below. He loves the way it feels under his hand; the way Remus twitches with each brush of his fingers.

He’s hard himself, so he shifts a little, hoping to ease the pressure, and squints along the side of the church. He can’t see the sign by the gate.

“Big spire,” he says, circling the head of Remus’ cock with his thumb. “St John’s?”

“I don’t believe it was,” Remus says, through gritted teeth. Sirius would applaud, if his hand wasn’t busy. Remus usually likes to make a lot of noise.

“Definitely doesn’t look like a St Peter’s. Or St Mary’s.”

“It’s All Saints, dear,” a woman opposite says.

Sirius beams at her. “Thanks. We’ve never been here before.”

“Are you staying locally?” a girl asks. She’s enough like the first woman that Sirius guesses she’s her daughter.

He shakes his head. “We’re on a cycling tour. My friend here’s reading history, so we stopped off to have a look around.”

“It’s ever so old, the church,” she says sagely. “You’re students, then?”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, leaning back a little. Remus is beginning to thrust into his palm, little, helpless jerks.

“So what are you studying, then?”

“Physics,” Sirius says blithely. Remus makes a funny little noise. Hah. He never can keep quiet.

“Oh, I was always terrible at maths,” she says. “I’m Barbara.”

“Sirius.”

“And your friend?”

Remus blinks at her. His cheeks are scarlet, but he mumbles, “Remus,” and manages a smile.

Sirius watches her sigh, and feels rather pleased with himself. He charms them, and then Remus makes them want to take him home and feed him. It’s a good thing for the women of Britain they’re both as bent as horseshoes.

Upon which note, he’d better distract her, because Remus is getting increasingly pink and breathless and it’s a bit obvious, really.

“You live in town, then, Barbara?” he asks.

“Oh, no, we’re from Tixover. We’ve come for the market, haven’t we, Mum?”

Barbara’s mum is giving him a disapproving stare. _Dangerous blokes, these students, never know what they might get up to,_ Sirius thinks and smiles at her. “Where’s that, then? Is it worth a visit?”

“Oh, there’s nothing there. Just the church and the river.”

“Sounds lovely,” he says, a little distracted by the way Remus has closed his eyes and turned his head towards the corner. Sirius can feel Remus’ pulse throbbing against the heel of his palm, and see the colour flooding across his neck. “Maybe you could show us round.”

“The rain has _stopped_ , Barbara,” says Barbara’s mother sternly, and tugs her daughter out of the porch.

“Another time, perhaps,” Sirius calls after them and waves. “Nice to meet you, Barbara.”

He waves until they’re out of the gate, but by then there’s no one else in the porch, and Remus is no longer trying to be quiet. His head thumps back against Sirius’ shoulder and he presses himself back, hips bucking. Sirius locks his free arm around him with a sigh of relief, and buries his face in his shoulder as Remus comes into his hand, choking back moans.

A few moments later, he’s being backed against the wall, Remus pressed against him, still breathless. He tightens his arms and Remus slumps onto him, limp and flushed and damp.

“What the _hell_ ,” he says, “was that about?”

Sirius thinks _I was bored_ might get him in trouble, and he really, really wants Remus to return the favour very soon, please, so he says, “We’re in _Rutland_ , Moony.”

“Oh, god,” Remus says weakly and begins to laugh.


End file.
